by Rachel Bard
“When will you stop thinking of yourself first and your baby second? This helpless child depends on you and no one else for its safe delivery. Yet you insist on rushing about for your own selfish reasons. If it were up to me I’d be tempted to leave you to deal with the consequences. But my duty is to Queen Eleanor and her wish is that you and your unborn child arrive in good health in Fontevraud. Now I must talk to your maid and to the woman of the house about your care. I shall call in and check up on you often, whether you like it or not.”
He turned brusquely and went in search of Jeanette.
Joanna felt chastened. She’d risked the life of her baby through a moment of carelessness, of inattention. She lay there a long time, immobile under her blankets. Suffused in guilt and despair, she sighed deeply. It came out as a moan.
“So you’re awake? But not in pain, I hope?”
She looked up and saw that a tall, thin woman with gray hair pulled back into a knot stood by her bedside. This must be Berthe. Joanna’s first impression was that her face showed the ravages of a hard life. Her second was that she’d accepted the buffetings of fate with humor and acceptance.
“No, I feel no pain except from the fall. But it’s my fault that this happened. I should have paid more attention to where I was going. I shouldn’t have let my horse follow Adelaide’s so closely. And now I can hardly bear to think I may lose the baby.”
“You mustn’t rush to conclusions. The longer you go without any discomfort, the likelier it is that everything’s going to be all right. Don’t let the doctor scare you. We’ll be very careful and watchful.” Her matter-of-fact manner gave Joanna more confidence than Dr. Basilio had done.
“Thank you. I’m so glad you could make room for me. Is Jeanette here too?”
“Yes, we’ve already gotten acquainted. Between us we’ll manage very well. We’ll take turns sleeping on the cot over there in the corner, so someone will always be here.”
She sat in the chair by the bed and smoothed Joanna’s tousled hair off her forehead. Her touch, despite her work-roughened hands, was gentle and soothing.
“And since you’ll be here a while, we might as well get to know each other better. As to my making room for you, taking in travelers happens to be my business. Our town of Mellon is on the route to Compostelle, and this is really a hostel for pilgrims. I can put up a dozen or more in the small rooms on the upper floors. I keep this room for travelers who want a bit more space and privacy. I don’t normally provide meals; there are several inns nearby that do. But for you I’ll make an exception, though I’m not much of a cook.”
“Never mind, my cook, Michel, is with us. He hasn’t had to do much cooking lately and I’m sure he’d be happy to get back in a kitchen. With your approval, of course.”
Berthe’s smile transformed her face from impersonal politeness to glad relief.
“I shall welcome Michel, indeed I shall. I’ve been worrying about taking in a lady of your rank. Not so much about keeping you warm and quiet and comfortable, we’ll manage that all right, but about what you’ll want on your plate. I kept my late husband satisfied with porridge in the morning and soup in the evening. But that won’t do for the countess of Toulouse.”
“Good, that’s settled. Perhaps you could ask Jeanette to find Michel so you can put him to work right away. I seem to be very hungry.”
“Well, you should be. You’re eating for two, as they say. Now why don’t you have a little nap while we get things organized.”
After she left, Joanna smiled to herself, snug and warm in her bed. She liked Berthe already. She wasn’t nearly as stern as she’d first appeared. She was kind, she seemed alert and intelligent and altogether unlike the greedy crone she’d expected from Captain Floret’s description. With her sensible counsel she reminded Joanna of Lady Marian, who had been far more than a lady-in waiting, but a friend and confidante for so many years.
During succeeding days Berthe often settled by her bedside to keep her company. When they knew each other better, Berthe asked diffidently, “Do you mind if I get inquisitive? I know so little about you. Of course I know that the late King Richard was your brother, and your mother is Queen Eleanor, and that you were queen of Sicily and now you’re countess of Toulouse. And you’re in a great hurry to get to Fontevraud Abbey. Beyond that, only rumors. But I can tell you’re deeply troubled. Would you like to talk about it? Sometimes that helps.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“For one thing, they say that when you began this journey your little son was with you. But he was seized by kidnappers. That must have been a terrible blow.”
Joanna found herself pouring out her story, finding relief in telling it to a stranger who had no preconceived notions of blame or sympathy. She held nothing back, not even her displacement by a younger woman. Berthe listened carefully, asking few questions. When Joanna reached the final episode—finding a refuge here in Mellon—she laid her hand on Berthe’s arm. “And how lucky I was that I took my tumble right in front of your house!”
“Lucky, yes. But I’d rather believe that God led you to me, just when I had no other guests and would be able to give you the attention you need.”
“You’re very kind. And I hope I haven’t bored you with my tale of woe.”
“Not at all. It’s an absorbing story. It’s not over yet, to be sure. When you get to Fontevraud and your baby is safely born, you’ll see where life will take you next. But don’t worry about that now. If I’ve learned one thing in my fifty years, it’s to take one thing at a time. God will let us know soon enough what he has in mind for us.”
“Maybe so.”
She was getting drowsy, nestling in her cocoon of woolen blankets. “Thank you for listening to me. I think I’ll rest now until suppertime.”
She’d hardly closed her eyes when there was a knock on her door. “A messenger for you, my lady,” said Jeanette. In he came, damp and travel-worn. Mud had splashed onto his leggings and water dripped from his cloak. Jeanette looked shocked and ran for a mop. He handed Joanna a rolled-up parchment.
“I’ve been a long time looking for you, my lady, and I’m right glad to have found you at last. I was told I needn’t wait for an answer.”
Jeanette returned, mopped up the puddle that had formed around his boots, and took him off to get dry and have a meal in front of the kitchen hearth. Joanna, oblivious, unrolled the parchment.
It was from Brother Jean-Pierre and the message had been written three weeks ago. It was brief:
“My dear Joanna: I send sorry news. Our young friend Federico has died as a result of wounds in battle. After Richard’s death, Federico and six others of Richard’s knights went back to Châlus to seek revenge. They tried to storm the castle but Federico took an arrow that went straight to his heart. He was dead in a matter of minutes. I join you in grieving and we will pray for his soul.
“I write this from Poitiers. I plan to be in Fontevraud for the services for your brother. I shall look forward to seeing you there.”
She read it again and again, trying to comprehend the dreadful news. She pulled the covers up over her head and wept. Finally, exhausted, she sat up. Jeanette had brought a basin of warm water and soft cloths. Gently, she washed and dried her mistress’s face.
“Thank you. I’ve lost someone who was very dear to me.”
“I know. The messenger said that your friend Jean-Pierre told him the young man was like your son. I am so very sorry, my lady.”
Joanna couldn’t even take comfort in the hope of seeing Jean-Pierre at Fontevraud. The doctor had decreed that she must make the rest of the journey in a litter. They wouldn’t reach the abbey until a week and more after the service. Jean-Pierre would certainly have left.
She lay awake for what seemed hours that night, helpless under the onslaught of so many misfortunes coming at once. She mourned Federico and she was depressed because she wouldn’t be in Fontevraud for Richard’s service. She tried to pray but nobody seemed to be listeni
ng. Just before dawn she fell asleep, exhausted.
The next day when Berthe had come to take her breakfast tray, the manservant entered to announce that three travelers were on the doorstep, desirous of lodging. He asked Berthe what he should tell them. It was raining and they were drenched and forlorn.
“Do they look respectable?” asked Berthe.
“Very much so. They’re monastics of some sort—their cloaks were so wet that I couldn’t tell which order they belong to.”
“Well then, let’s welcome them. They can use the two rooms upstairs. Tell them that after they’ve dried off I’ll come up and discuss terms.” Berthe the businesswoman had taken over. She turned to Joanna. “I’ll see you at dinnertime. Michel is busy in the kitchen already. He seems to be doing something quite interesting with a pork roast and apples and onions.”
Lonely and downcast, Joanna was left to her own devices for the rest of the day. She thought wistfully of Berthe’s unquestioning trust in an all-seeing God’s wisdom. She longed to find the same consoling certainty. She asked Jeanette to find her psalter. Surely in the psalms she’d find words of comfort and reassurance.
She opened the soft leather binder and studied the first manuscript page. It was elaborately ornamented with a brilliant red inscription, the first words of the first psalm. She knew it by heart from the days when studying the psalms was part of her education: “Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly.” She hadn’t been walking in the counsel of the ungodly but she hadn’t been walking in the counsel of the godly, either. She sighed, feeling more lost than ever.
Yet she could remember a time when her life was quite the opposite, filled with companionship, warmth and love. Why had everything changed?
She closed her eyes and imagined a sunny day in Palermo. She and Lady Marian were walking in the park. They were surrounded by cascades of purple bougainvillea and beds of fiery red poppies. Their path led them through a grove of palms where birds were calling to each other. Federico— still a black-haired, incredibly handsome fourteen-year-old in her memory—walked to meet them and to tell her that King William was asking for her. She went into the cool palace courtyard and she and her husband embraced as though they’d been apart for days though it had been only a few hours.
She turned to her psalter again, opened it at random and leafed her way through the vellum pages. But she found no consolation, only proof that the psalmists, too, had their moments of doubt and despair.
My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch for the morning.
I watch, and am as a sparrow alone upon the housetop.
Lord, why castest thou off my soul? Why hidest thou thy face from me?
Discouraged, she leaned back and closed her eyes. She tried in vain to summon up the dream of Palermo again. She was roused from a fitful sleep by footsteps and saw that Jeanette was standing by her bed.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady, but one of the monks who came this morning asked if he could see you briefly. I don’t know why. Shall I tell him you aren’t well enough?”
“No, have him come in. Maybe he’ll help me to deal with Federico’s death. Maybe he can make me understand why things like this happen.”
Brother Sylvester was tall and robust, square-jawed and self-possessed. Though he wore the black habit of the Benedictines, he looked as though he’d be more at home in full battle garb, riding a warhorse. But he spoke in a surprisingly calming, modulated voice, not the stentorian tones she’d have expected. He told Joanna that he was en route from Paris to Moissac, and had recently stopped at Fontevraud.
“It was the day after the service in honor of your late brother, King Richard, which I understand you had hoped to attend. I extend my sympathy that you weren’t able to be present. Most of the guests who had come for the ceremony had left when we arrived, but your friend Brother Jean-Pierre was still there. We fell into conversation and when he learned what route we would take south, he asked us most particularly to inquire along the way as to your whereabouts. If we should come across you, we were to deliver this message: ‘Brother Jean-Pierre will remain at Fontevraud until you come.’ And in his infinite wisdom God led us to you straightaway.”
She felt like jumping out of bed and hugging him. “Oh, that’s good news—the first I’ve had in months!”
“Then I’m glad to be the bearer. Your friend Jean-Pierre gave me to understand that you’ve had your share of misfortunes lately, besides the loss of your brother. May I say that I hope the welcome message I’ve brought will remind you that God sends us joys as well as woes? Sometimes, when we are oppressed with sorrow and despair, we need to reflect on our blessings. As we add them up we may be surprised to find they quite outweigh the misfortunes. I’ll wish you good day now, and may God grant you a safe journey.” He was off before she could thank him.
She felt comforted. She hadn’t been foolish after all to hope for a useful conversation with a wise man of the church—though this had hardly been a conversation. It was more like an abbreviated sermon. Yet in so few words he’d given her much to think about.
The baby chose that moment to produce a vigorous kick. Joanna laughed. “What are you trying to tell me, little one? To stop this introspection and get us to Fontevraud so you can escape from your confinement? Very well, I’ll try to persuade the doctor.”
To her surprise persuasion wasn’t necessary. Dr. Basilio decreed the next day that it would be safe for her to travel. She bade farewell to Berthe, both of them promising to see each other again, both knowing it was highly unlikely. She said goodbye to Captain Floret and his knights, who were no longer needed thanks to the escort Eleanor had sent. The party was further depleted when Michel and his kitchen helpers decided to return to Toulouse.
“Count Raymond was away from Toulouse so much that I doubt if he knew who his cook was,” he told Joanna, “so I doubt if he’ll notice if I come back.”
“I’ll miss you, Michel. You’ve spoiled me for anybody else’s cooking.”
“Ah, but you’ll still eat well. I hear there are excellent cooks at Fontevraud.”
Borne along in her litter, with little to look at except sky and treetops, Joanna had plenty of time to dream and to conjecture. She dreamed of the baby to come in little more than a month. What should she name her? Eleanor would be the easy, tactful choice. But there were already three Eleanors in the family. What about Mary? Yes, she liked the name. And if by chance it was a boy, she was ready. Richard, of course.
She mused on the past week. Though she’d fretted at the delay in the journey, it had had its rewards. First of all, of course, she hadn’t lost the baby. She had to admit she had Dr. Basilio to thank for that. Then there had been the supportive, wise presence of Berthe. And now, the assurance that soon she’d see Jean-Pierre, the dear friend and mentor who had instructed her since she was ten in matters spiritual and temporal, from interpretation of the Scriptures to Latin declensions, from the power of prayer to the geography of the Mediterranean world. They’d have so much to talk about!
He’d undoubtedly have news of her friends in England—Lady Marian, who’d helped her through many a hard time during the Sicilian years and who could be a grandmother by now. Mary, who’d started as her flighty, red-haired little chambermaid and had grown up to be a responsible lady-in-waiting and a true friend. Loyal Sir Alan, who’d been her faithful guardian and who’d helped Federico achieve knighthood. Where were they now?
Then there were the questions that had been troubling her. Why did she feel God wasn’t listening when she prayed for guidance? Why did she feel so lost, so rudderless, when she tried to imagine what lay ahead? Jean-Pierre would surely have some answers.
Her mother would have some answers too, if to different questions. Joanna already guessed that Queen Eleanor would have decided on a new marriage as the best solution to her situation. She might have the bridegroom already selected. Well, this time she wouldn’t find her daughter so compliant. I might even br
ing up my mother’s championship of Count Raymond’s suit, Joanna thought. And look how that turned out.
But there was no point in worrying about all that now. Unbidden, Berthe’s words came back to her. “Take one day at a time. The Lord will let you know soon enough what lies ahead.” Maybe I’m finally learning to do that, she reflected.
After five days of slow travel, Joanna and her party reached the lane that led from the main road to Fontevraud Abbey. She persuaded Dr. Basilio to let her leave the litter and walk the rest of the way. At the end of the lane there it was, the massive church with its tall square tower, the centerpiece of the whole extensive complex. A cluster of smaller buildings surrounded it like chicks around the mother hen. She marveled at how the afternoon sun transformed the drab, dun, stone walls and lent them a tawny glow. The sunlight glancing off the brilliant colors of the stained glass windows was almost blinding.
Joanna stood there silently for several moments, remembering the carefree days of her early childhood when she’d stayed here so often with her mother. She’d visited only twice while she was in Poitiers after returning from the Crusade. Her last visit had been five years ago. She hoped nothing had changed.
It hadn’t. To prove it, here came Abbess Mathilde, a short, rotund figure enveloped in a gray cloak and with a lofty white headdress. Her face was just as Joanna remembered it, as wrinkled as an overwintered apple. She was perhaps a little plumper and certainly walked more slowly and carefully, but she still demonstrated by her demeanor who was in charge here. And she still delivered her remarks in a steady monologue with no pauses for interruptions or questions or comments.
“Good afternoon, my lady, and to you as well, Lady Adelaide. I’m sorry to say Queen Eleanor is not here. She has gone to Rouen where your brother John is holding court. I suppose we must call him King John now. She wishes you to be lodged in the apartment next to hers, where you have stayed before.”